


Appropriation

by Demidea



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, burial practices are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:40:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demidea/pseuds/Demidea
Summary: They won’t let anyone return for the bodies. Not even Callan’s.
The first few days after death, all that happens is rot. Rot and carrion-eaters. On the third night, the soul is expelled from the remains. After that, after some days or weeks, the soul becomes corporeal. No one knows what happens in those days, but there are theories. Most believe death infects the soul, using it as a way to exist in the living realm, and drag other living into itself. Others will say the soul learns to be corporeal through madness and grief.
Whatever happens, the result is clear: those left unburied cannot truly pass on, and those who don’t pass on become corrupted.
It’s a terrible fate, one worse than death. One Khadgar won’t allow to happen to Callan Lothar.





	1. Chapter 1

“Khadgar,” Llane’s voice is soft, but it carries halfway across camp. “What are you doing?”

“Uh.” Khadgar, with great effort, tears himself from his pacing, blue light dimming as he fights to keep the half completed spell at a standstill. It’s obvious from the expression that he hadn’t expected to be questioned. “Preparing the means to retrieve-“

“That won’t be necessary.” Llane says, just as softly as before but now with an edge of finality.

Khadgar doesn’t pick up on the tonal cue, though the surprise causes him to lose the arcane glow, the runes fizzling out around them. A waste. “Not necessary?” He says, surprised, and, _unfortunately_ , much too loudly. “But the-“

Lothar cuts him off, sharp as a newly whet blade, voice ringing clear enough to grab the attention any of his soldiers within listening distance. “It’s not practical. We cannot spare the resources.”

“Carry on.” Llane says, eyes flicking around at the stilled soldiers, but lingering on Lothar when they fall on him. After one particularly long linger, they snap to Khadgar. His tone is gentle, but does not recommend reply. “Get some rest, we continue on in the morning.”

The movements of camp continue around him. Llane retires to his tent. Lothar excuses himself to check those handling the horses’ armor, only to glance up and catch a fluttering of blue cloak and a defiant face. The bastard. Why do the young always have to be so willful against authority? (Nevermind his and Llane’s own youth, he will die insisting they were never this bad.) Lothar goes through his mental checklist: if Khadgar were intelligent, he’d take care of his share of the work first until he had a reasonable amount of time built up where no one would seek him out. Lothar can intercept him at the mess fire, where he’s expected to restock food, but Khadgar would be able to deny any plans. It’s no use following him, either, once the mage picks up he’s being watched he always finds a way to slip out of sight. No, the best way would be to head him off, interrupt him in the act. If anything enforced orders it was guilt.

So Lothar continues to work through the camp, suggesting to as many soldiers as possible to go grab a bite, until the noises of work lull and conversation becomes more prominent. Still, it never grows beyond a low murmur. They’re all tired, after all, and Blackrock Spire still looms in the distance. He’s glad for the distraction of work. If he has one eye on Khadgar, he’s less likely to catch sight of the Spire. Less likely to renew the ache in his heart.

He’s glad for the mission, it keeps despair at bay.

Lothar returns from cleaning his own armor and has just enough time to grab a roll before Khadgar moves in his peripheral, slipping away from his post over the mage table.

There were few places close by that could shelter fully the arcane glow, with reason. Anything that can hide the glow can hide an orc or a scout. When they chose this location, some years back, Llane was made aware of a series of shallow caves at the neck of the rock they would be using as a shield. The caves were inspected, determined to have no unseen openings that would cause compromise, and the site was marked as reasonably safe, with the caves as an added bonus for more, say, delicate matters. Acceptable forms of stress relief, so long as they were reasonably sheltered from the main camp.

As he approaches, the sound of muted slapping and low gasping can only mean Khadgar had been beaten to the caves by a pair doing just that. Excellent, that makes this easier. In fact, there’s Khadgar, standing near the mouth of the cave, looking hesitant and mildly uncomfortable. He’s so distracted, Lothar manages to approach unheard until he’s within reach before Khadgar notices.

“Are you waiting your turn?” He asks, and despite his current mood, he manages cheek. He’s reward when Khadgar jumps a foot in the air and flushes, backing against the rock wall to the right of the cave mouth.

“No- I-“ Lothar’s tempted to leave him hanging, just to see what he comes up with. “I wouldn’t- I-“

The third _I_ has Lothar impatient, however, so he looms in, planting a fist in the rock above Khadgar’s shoulder. “You what, mage? Do you just enjoy watching?” Were it just another night, Khadgar squirming uncomfortably would be a thing to revel in. Instead Lothar just feels the beginning of a pounding headache, the taste of stale sweat reminding him he’s due for a wash before bed, among other things. “Or did you have other plans? Like, say, disobeying the orders of the king?”

The mage draws himself up, jaw tight with determination. “They should be buried. If not at home, then at least-“

“Where they are? Surrounded by orcs, just waiting to be plundered by a passing warlock for his undead army?”

“Well, technically-“ Khadgar starts, but he stops when he manages eye contact once more. He must see something Lothar wasn’t aware of, something that overrides his indomitable need to speak his mind. Whatever it is, he’s quiet for a full minute. “Why aren’t we going back for the bodies, Lothar?”

It hits him like a punch to the gut. No one has said anything to the effect all day, no one was willing to be the one to bring up what, _who_ had been lost, nor the extent to which they were lost. He reels back, his fist still planted in the stone but now his arm is fully extended to cover the distance he put between them. “Because,” and he has to look back, tone down, as his first few syllables had flung to widely.

“Because we have lost so many men that all still living are need to muster before we can begin to understand just how outnumbered we are.” He draws his fist back slightly, anger demanding action, and punches the stone. “Because burying them would take time we don’t have and energy we should be expending to protect the living.” He punches the stone again, this time hard enough to create a dull thud. “And, finally, because the last garrison of men we lost, we lost because they were ambushed-“ thud “-burying-“ thud “-the-“ thud “- _dead_.”

To his credit, Khadgar had only flinched the first time Lothar moved to punch, every time after he merely looked disturbed. “I’m a mage, I can-“

“Did you not hear me before? The part about limited resources? You’re a mage, alright, our _only_ mage. You escorted the Guardian back yourself. We need you. The king needs you. I need you to come back and get some sleep, so this day can be _done_.”

Khadgar makes a noise of protest. “But-“

“Stop.” His voice breaks. “Stop tempting me.”

If Khadgar meant to say anything, if he had anything to say, it’s lost when two of Lothar’s soldiers, both pink and hastily dressed, leap from the cave mouth, both muttering _sorry, commander_ as they rushed back to camp.

“Those rumors are going to be interesting.” Khadgar remarks.

“Yeah.” Lothar agrees humorlessly. “They’re only going to get worse. You’re coming back to camp with me, and you won’t be leaving my sight.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you don’t start waking now, I’ll drag you back. Let them make what they will of that.”

“Alright, alright.” Khadgar says, holding up his hands and stepping around Lothar. “It’s just- Where will I be sleeping? You know, if you plan on keeping me within sight.”

Lothar just glowers. “On the ground, with the rest of the adolescents I babysit.”

Then he takes off in stride, leaving Khadgar behind, looking confused and rather like he’d just been splashed with cold water.

~

Once camp is broken, once the rank is formed, the road itself is long and dull. For Khadgar, being neither a soldier nor a long time member of the Court, this meant the easy banter of those around him tended to be foreign to him and attempting to join in made all involved uncomfortable. Normally he resorted to his books, but today he could not concentrate on the lines. Blackrock Spire commands his attention, and if he were to brood, he doubts very much it would be singled out as unusual.

Garona gives him the answer. Or, rather, she had given the answer to him weeks back, when they initially travelled together. She was naturally curious, and for that reason alone he tended to gravitate to her did it say something that the only one he felt comfortable talking to was the prisoner?). He could never stay around long, Lothar tended to barge over when they ‘got too cozy,’ which never ended pleasantly for Garona or Khadgar (especially Khadgar). But at least once, when he and the remainder of the Garrison spent a day gathering bodies from a small inn and digging graves, did she turn to him with open curiosity.

It’s nearly dark by the time Khadgar stumbles over to her, and conjures a bowl of stew and bread. His arms ache and his back protests still being upright, but at least he managed to keep up with the soldiers.

“Why do you insist on burying the dead?” Garona asks, accepting the food with gratitude. No sooner than she had does he conjure another roll for himself. “It takes time, you lose more.”

He wonders, not for the first time, what sort of world she must come from where burying the dead wasn’t a necessity. “We have to. Otherwise their souls linger. They become malevolent. Uh. Dangerous and seeking to hurt others. The living others. We call them Lemuris. Or Shades.”

“Where are your gods?” Garona asks, not touching her stew. Her confusion seems to have overridden her hunger.

“I’m sorry?” Khadgar asks after swallowing his mouthful of bread. “Gods?”

“Orcworld is a world of war. Many deaths, many unburied. But,” she pronounces a guttural word, one Khadgar can only assume is a name, with at least two clicks in place of syllables, “finds the lost and leads them to rest. Does this world not have one like him?”

“No. We don’t.” Both turn head quickly, to find Lothar standing a few feet away. “Khadgar, if you’re not too busy trading information with the enemy, we actually do have a Shade problem.”

“But we got all the bodies-“

“They’re in the woods, in the pit where the wargs had slept.”

Oh. Khadgar helps himself to his feet, wincing at the knowledge. “I see. I’ll handle it.”

As he walks by, Lothar speaks again, this time to Garona. “Did you want to watch? I’m sure you’re curious.”

“Yes.”

“If you try to run, I’ll kill you.”

“I will not run.”

Lothar makes a noise of disbelief at that and walks much too close to her.

They find Khadgar past a group of soldiers. He’s crouching low, his eyes lit blue, palm flat over the ground and lit with a wheel of runes moving much like a compass. Looming above him, tall as pillars, are five beings that appear to be made of gray smoke. They’re formless, with only a slight dimple where the head would separate from the neck, faceless, sexless. They bob occasionally, placid.

“See the speck of gold light in the center?” Lothar asks. Garona nods, unable to look away. “That means they’re fresh. Still somewhat lucid. Older ones look like charcoal smoke, and they’ll swipe at anyone who gets too close to their remains.”

Khadgar starts muttering a different spell, the runes on his hands disappearing. Once it’s tied off, there’s a pop, and five locations on the forest floor burst into small campfires. In the heat and light, the Shades look pale and fragile, the closest of which shifts around, the outline of what might be an arm swipes over the overlarge head.

“A funeral pyre. Good thinking.” Lothar says, turning head. Garona’s nose wrinkles. “Now we’ll smell burning warg shit all night.”

Then they’re gone. Khadgar stands, throwing a grimace over his shoulder at Lothar and Garona both.

“Do they all look like that?” Garona asks.

“No,” Khadgar answers, approaching the closest pyre, now cooling cinders. He begins to pick through it with care. “They tend to take the shape of the body they remember. Large head, large hands and feet, a smaller, defined midsection and distinct legs. Their height varies, but you can tell what they once were.”

“Why were these different?” Lothar asks, knowing he’s going to regret it.

“Oh.” Khadgar looks up. He seems paler now, and a little queasy. “You know.” He shrugs awkwardly, voice trailing off. His voice strains. “This is where they kept the wargs, you said?”

“Yeah,” Lothar replies slowly. “Yeah, the men kept finding tufts of fur on branches. Dropping, fur, pawprints, you name it.”

“You did not answer his question.” Garona says.

Khadgar stares at the cinders he had been picking through like he regrets his curiosity. Slowly, he reaches down to steady himself.

“Khadgar.” Garona prompts again.

The mage lets out a long breath, not quite a sigh, and sits back on the ground, suddenly weary. Lothar picks his way across the area to him, concerned, Garona not far behind. He looks weak and too old for his rounded face. Lothar understands why the moment he gets a good look at the pile in front of the mage.

A human skull, delicate, not fully formed, and about the size of Lothar’s palm.

Khadgar continues, dazed, like he can’t stop himself even if he very badly wants to. “Infants’ sense of their own body doesn’t really develop until after their first six months.”

~~~

The first thing Khadgar does when they reach Stormwind, after seeing to his mount, is find where they’re keeping Garona. He can’t be sure they don’t house her in the same cell as before, not after her action at Blackrock, and is relieved when the servant leads him past the walk that would take them to the prisons. That didn’t mean, however, that he was expecting them to turn to the armory. Nor was he expected to see Lothar leave. Luckily Lothar has other things on his mind, and can’t be bothered by Khadgar’s presence, allowing Khadgar to enter the room without hassle. His goal stood alone, eying weapons with clear interest.

“Garona.” Khadgar says, pausing slightly to take in her new freedom in choosing an arsenal. He had questions about that as well, but they could wait. “I have a question. You said your world was dying.”

“Yes.” Perhaps it’s the feeling of a solid weapon in her hand, but she regards him with placid amusement rather than the normal frown of concentration. She’s about to set her current weapon of choice, a pike, back on the rack to give him her full attention, but he waves the action off. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and he would not be the one to step between Garona and any enjoyment she may experience. He steps back, allowing her the freedom of the floor to practice on.

“You said your gods follow your people.”

“Yes.” To his untrained eye, her movements are graceful and astonishingly quick, but, perhaps, too eager. He has to step back more than once to avoid the spike.

“You came through the portal.”

One of Garona’s swings arcs too wide, and she sweeps a row of spears out of their rack. Khadgar flinches as the clatter of metal on stone echoes through the room and probably the rest of the castle. For a moment, after the strike rings, they’re silent, eyes wide. Fortunately, no one rushes in to yell at them, and Garona replies to his last inquiry. “Yes.”

“Do you think an aspect of your god was brought with you?”

That could have been offensive, blasphemous even, but the way Garona talks about “Gods” made Khadgar think she used the term Gods the same way she used the term honor, as similar boundaries to a familiar concept rather than a spot on translation. When she doesn’t skewer him, he figures he guessed correctly. Probably.

She anchors her pike into the stone, contemplating the thought long enough that he shifts nervously. However, when she looks at him again, he only sees solid conclusion. “You would have to ask them.”

“Great.” That seemed simple enough. Just talk to him. “How do I do that?”

“Do you not have shamans here, either?” Garona asks, sounding exasperated.

“No.” The answer is quick but the contemplation lasts beyond it. His eyes move back and forth, and the pieces fall in place. “Well. Not really, but sort of.” He looks her directly in the eye once more. “But I may need your help.”

“You will have it,” she declares, and in that moment Khadgar feels a swelling in his chest, one of gratitude and affection, as well as some pride that of all of Azeroth, he was one of the few Garona wouldn’t hesitate to assist. For a moment, because after that moment, Garona breaks eye contact and awkwardly assesses the mess at their feet. “I must… organize these, now.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Khadgar, too, looks down. There was an order to those spears before Garona knocked them down. However, it was not one Khadgar was familiar with and he strongly suspected it had to do with individual person and rank rather than the more logical systems Khadgar knew how to quantify off hand, like length or weight. However, he may be able to sort with logic, based on how they fell… “I’ll help. Uh. I won’t tell Lothar if you don’t.”

“Agreed.”

~

“You want me to do what?” The Priest asked, incredulous. He’s a younger gentleman, highly competent, and, if Khadgar’s research panned out, one of the more open-minded.

“If The Light is beyond our cosmos, it stands to reason that, on another world-“

“I know.” The Priest cuts him off, “Believe me, I’m the one with the lifetime of practicing this stuff. I just find it hard to believe the King would ask for such a strange request.”

The King. Right. That’s who Khadgar answered to. “It’s not just for the King. I believe such a deity would have knowledge that would help our entire world.”

“Like what?” The Priest asks.

“Like establishing a guide to lead all Lemuris to rest, without the need to vanquish them or expend energy purifying them.”

That is enough to turn the Priest’s frown from irritated and mistrustful to more of a thoughtful scowl. He looks between Khadgar’s determined expression to Garona’s slightly menacing straight face. “Fine. But it won’t be easy.”

He pats his robes, until he finds what he needs, his hand darting in one of the folds and pulling out a blank piece of paper. He conjures a quill, and begins to scribble. “And you’ll need to bring your own supplies. Here. This should keep you busy while I come up with a legitimate excuse to miss most of a day.”

He stalks off before Khadgar can protest. Garona glares after him for a second, then looks to Khadgar for guidance. He’s holding the paper, muttering the items with slight outrage.

“Will this be hard?”

“Well,” he glances up at her, grim, “Yes. But. It’s for Callan.”

Garona nods once, sharply. “Then it is done.”

~

When they first took Khadgar on, he was informed by Lothar himself that he would under no circumstance be allowed to wander unsupervised, especially within the castle. Now, barely a month later, he’s told there wasn’t a man to spare for the task. Which, despite speaking more to desperation than trust, was fine. He just wished that someone, _anyone_ , would direct him the right way the first time. If those he met in the halls weren’t so harried, he would suspect maliciousness. Given they usually reported directly to Lothar, he wasn’t especially keen on ruling the possibility out entirely.

“You’re sure?” Khadgar asks a third time. He’s given a dark look, not unearned, though since he began his journey an hour and four directions ago, neither was his asking. The man brushes him off, and Khadgar starts once again down another hall. Honestly, how hard should it be to learn the route to the Library?

This hall winds out and around in a way that suggests a large room, which is encouraging. Every third torch along the wall has been snuffed for the evening, which, given the time of night, doesn’t surprise him. In fact, he’s grateful for it when he spots the dim gold glow of a room in use just beyond the next wind…

His ears perk, his pace slows, and he stretches his breathing: under his footfalls he picked up a voice, low droning. His mind immediately goes to _Medivh_ , but while familiar, wasn’t likely. Besides, as he approaches, it sounds like a lullaby…

SMACK.

Fear washes his vision for a second, and when it clears he’s pressed against the wall, his forward foot toeing the line of light.

“Damn it,” Lothar slurred. At least, that’s what he thinks Lothar meant to slur, it was hard to pick actual words out of elongated vowels and trodden consonants. Wood scrapes stone, heavy soles shuffle around unevenly, until a sound like a hollow object ringing against the floor (a tankard?) is abruptly interrupted by a less pronounced smack. Lothar slumps back into his chair, the wood scraping just that much more under his weight. “Damn it all.”

Drinking. It must be nearing midnight, if not already past. Briefly, Khadgar considers entering the room. To do what, he wasn’t sure. Talk, maybe? Convince Lothar to drink water and retire? But his fleeting aspirations evaporate when he hears a wet, ragged intake of breath.

Khadgar peels himself from the wall, taking care to move as quietly as possible, resolving to stand down the hall and return when Lothar fell asleep.

The Lion of Azeroth had lost enough these past weeks. Khadgar would not be the one to take his privacy as well.

~

It’s hard work. Well, maybe not hard on a relative scale when compared to “a race foreign to our planet is successfully invading and capturing nearly half the country while decimating our defenses,” but most definitely hard to make time for. Hard to keep secret. He and Garona split the list and the time spent searching, but Khadgar was often summoned to back travelling parties of men or called to Medivh’s side, and Garona, though she was free, was not so free from suspicion and couldn’t really move discretely.

One evening, Lothar drops in on Karazhan to dine with Medivh and Khadgar. This in itself isn’t unusual, since Medivh returned to Court life and unofficially take Khadgar on as an apprentice, they could expect to see Lothar’s gryphon on the horizon at least once every few days. He seemed to consider them part of his rounds, as it were.

Nor was it unusual for the Commander to be terse, or go out of his way to make Khadgar’s time greeting him unpleasant. Khadgar, like Medivh, wrote it off as a bad day, or bad news, more than likely a combination of the two. Medivh excuses himself from the table early, leaving Khadgar to clear it. As soon as Medivh’s robes flutter from sight, Lothar pounces.

“What are you two planning?” He asks, far too casually for Khadgar to treat it as anything but a threat.

“I can’t say for sure, but I believe Medivh is trying to rig as many books as possible to blow up in my face,” Khadgar says, reaching for Lothar’s empty plate. “And I have decided applying my efforts to an indestructible bird cage would be my best bet. Why?”

“Not you and Medivh, though that thought is concerning enough. You and Garona.” Khadgar can find no semblance of teasing in his tone, it’s too tight, too restrained.

“What did Garona say?” Khadgar setting the dishes aside and taking the seat next to Lothar.

“Does it matter?” Lothar asks heatedly, but when Khadgar only meets his glare with expectance, he relents. “Damn you two. She said she was bound not to tell me anything until you did, and when I asked her why she was involved in one of your idiotic side projects at all, she told me she had to atone.”

“I see.” Khadgar knows, by now, that Lothar isn’t truly angry. Irate, frustrated with the lack of an immediate answer, but not truly angry. Not like he likely would be, if he were given the full in honest truth. Khadgar’s eyes fall to the table, and he measures his reply carefully. “Do you really care to know?”

“No, I interrupted my highly important, daily war room meetings to hole up with you two and your dabblings for a night.”

“Maybe you decided you needed a break to look at it through fresh eyes.” Khadgar replies. “No one would fault you that.”

“Tell that to those we lose in the next week.” Lothar says, low and grave. However, his anger seems quenched. “Just. Tell me one thing, bookworm. Tell me this won’t lead you back to Blackrock. To ease my mind.”

Damn this stubborn old soldier. Damn him for earning Khadgar’s respect and trust, damn him for his streak of nobility, wrapped though it were in the pretense of arrogance. Damn him and his unwanted and (mostly) unnecessary concern. But damn him most of all for putting Khadgar in the position where lying would spare him pain, and yet lying was the one thing he couldn’t bear to do.

“Khadgar…” Lothar’s voice is dangerously low.

“If it helps the world heal from this war and others,” Khadgar says hotly, “then what does it matter if Callan inspired this quest?”

“Are you serious?” Lothar chews his lower lip like he’s biting back half of what comes to mind in response. “No. You will end this now.”

“What? No.” For one thing, thing, he’s _this_ close to completing the list, and like hell is that accomplishment being take from him.

“This isn’t a discussion.”

“You’re right it’s not.”

They glare at each other for a long time, until Lothar breaks gaze in frustration, launching himself to his feet, flipping the tray of used dishes to stalk out of the room.

~

The antechamber in the temple, a small, quiet, curved room, is barely lit. For a moment Khadgar thinks half his gathered items went to the Priest’s own purse, except that as soon as the door shut behind him, the Priest began to chant, and the lines of magic light up, bringing shape to shadow.

“Orc, say the name of your god.” Luckily Garona is too busy shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the next, head snapping this way and that as the light etches itself across the room around her, to snap a correction. She says the name. In the center of the room, between Khadgar and the Priest, a silver vapor rises and condenses into a mirror-like object ( _so that’s what all that silver was about_ ). The mirror surface ripples, red and orange forming the bottom cusp, a dark gray at the top. In the center, a gold and black symbol surfaces from the silver. Gradually these clear, the red turning to parched earth, grey a featureless sky, the black and gold a serpent chasing his own tail, half gold, half black, depending on the cycle of the rotation it spun on.

The serpent turns, and rears its head at Khadgar and Garona, then collapses into a cloud of gold and black, which slowly reforms as a figure gets to his feet. He, too, shifts continuously from gold to black, the transition given his only defined features. He rumbles his words.

“He asks, who summons him.” Garona says after a moment collecting herself. She can’t look away.

“I am Khadgar.” Khadgar prompts. “You are Garona.”

Garona shoots him a look, but speaks her language.

“Wait, that wasn’t my name. What did you call me?” He whispers.

“Our word for trust.” Garona replies simply. Huh. Medivh must have told her. The creature rumbles again.

“He asks what it is we have summoned him for.” Garona says.

“Uh. Ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

“Ask him if he will come to our world and guide our dead?”

“Do you ask him or me?” Garona snaps.

The voice rumbles, and Garona flinches. “Ask something,” she hisses.

Khadgar braces himself, but focuses on the thing in the mirror. “Your world is dying,” he starts, Garona translating as he goes along, “Our is not. Already some of your people have come here in hopes of finding a new home. However, there is no one such as he to guide the dead in this world. We would welcome him, here, along with his people if he would agree to provide this service for all races in this world.”

Garona finishes after him, starting and stopping to reword sentences in the structure of her language. The creature listens, but remains unmoved. He doesn’t sound different when he replies, either.

“He says,” Garona’s brow is furrowed. “He says he will not leave his world for ours. He will remain until the last of the dead needs to be led to rest. It is his duty. If his world is dying, then he must remain until it is time to lead it to rest as well.”

“What?” Khadgar asks, if only to have something to say while he processes a solution. “Wait. But what of your race here? Who will lead them?”

Garona speaks, and listens carefully to the rumbling reply. Her expression fades to neutral. “He cannot be split between two worlds. He must stay in the world of his birth, as his people should have.”

Well, that’s no good. Not good, but definitely a challenge. “He wasn’t always a god, then, right?”

Garona nod hesitantly.

“So he had to figure out how to do what he does at some point.” Logic. Blasphemy. The distinction was not his to make. “Is there a way for him to teach one here to do as he does?”

Garona stares at him for a long time, her jaw clenching and unclenching, eyes over-bright. If Khadgar had to put a name to her expression, it would be fear. Still, she turns stiffly and speaks for him. When she is done, the god crosses his arms, throws his head back and laughs. One shadowy hand reaches out towards the barrier.

He rumbles a short sentence. Garona frowns. “Your book. He wants to see it. You brought a book?”

“It’s blank.” Khadgar says, then catches the disbelief in her eyes. “What?”

“You brought a blank book.”

“Yes. For, well, for notes.” When she just stares back, he rolls his eyes, and reaches into his bag to produce the requested object.

The god’s fingertips swirl gold until the tip of sharp claws form, and touch the shimmering barrier. Silver ripples form where each clawtip rests, then stretch outward, and breaches. The room shudders under them, darkness dousing the crystal formation. All light snap to the edge of the newly formed tear in space. Khadgar flings his hand out, eyes blazing. He has to think quick, this has turned into a portal spell, of sorts, though the spell the Priest worked (more of a prayer, really) was not meant for this. So if he moves a rune here, and leaves out every fourth syllable so the Priest’s spell can weave into his own… maybe combined- Yes. There it is, his magic returns the definition to the portal, though he can see it has shrunken to the god’s chest and arm.

The God’s hand has come to rest hovering over Khadgar’s own, and he realizes this hand happened to have the book in it. A line of shadow flows down the gold claw like the nib of a pen, and it presses into the cover. Gold light envelopes the book, light Khadgar can feel deep in his bones. Like peace, like contentment, but also like foreboding. There’s a pang, and a single black line threads lengthwise across the gold, and half the book is shadow. Another pang, and a thread travels crosswise: black in the gold half, gold in the black half.

The arm slips away, leaving behind a faint rumbling, and the portal closes.

The Priest slumps, chest heaving. Khadgar, winded but otherwise too curious to fight for oxygen, looks at Garona. “What did he say?”

She has to shake herself from her reverie. “As is Life, Death. Inevitable.”

In the background, the Priest sits up. “Well. That was…” He stands on shaky legs, brushing silver dust from his sleeve. “Never again. Get out.”

~

Khadgar can read the book. He can’t explain how, it’s in no language he’s studied. He just… can. And it doesn’t make sense, yet it does. He can read it, understand its contents, but every time he comes close to finishing, he’s seized by a profound sense of change. Like he’s reverting to something that he can never come back from. The closest thing he has experience-wise was the day he earned his symbol, the day he realized the Kirin Tor truly expected him to become Guardian.

The Books speaks of a journey, of two lands and the stages where one must reach the other. It talks about the blindness each has to the other, about realizing this blindness, about giving up one’s place among either to forever wander in between to guide those left uncertain…

He never finishes the Book. Once he has it, he knows he must finish it, or someone else must, but…

But Medivh sends him to battle after finding his notes, and Lothar’s grief over Callan tides over in some violent breakdown Llane won’t speak to. Llane rides to the Portal…

Medivh is possessed by a demon…

He kills Medivh. Garona kills Llane.

Really, of all Khadgar’s problems, The Book lies forgotten in the bottom of his bag.

~

Lothar goes back for Llane’s body. It’s the sacrifice he couldn’t make for his son. It’s the ultimate sign of loyalty to the King.

It’s exactly the bitter pill Khadgar needs to pack up and finish what he started. There is no King Llane to order his action unnecessary now.

~

Blackrock Spire smells of death and magic, but Khadgar can sense no Fel. The bodies seemed to remain as they were left, hardly touched by carrion-eaters larger than birds. That was good. If the bodies that remained in easy reach were undisturbed, the ones closer to the center would also not have moved. He picks out the line of molten stone, the white flare of oxidized mineral veining out from where Medivh’s wall of lightning fell. Callan would be there.

Carefully, Khadgar sheds his cloak and bag, wrapping the latter in the former and tucking it under a rock. The less he had to grab onto the better. Now he wears only blessed clothing, all cinched tight at the hands and legs to prevent excessive billowing, and the Book. That done, he looks at his path once more.

This would be impossible.

He had forgotten just how many dead were left here. Scores. All laid out where they fell, all with charcoal Lemuris pacing back and forth. In the weeks, months, since the ambush there was no telling how much autonomy each had developed from their remains. All the hope Khadgar had was on how quick he would run.

Well. If he were to do this, he might as well do this.

Sudden motion catches the attention of all Lemuris nearby. Where he could see dozens, dozens more suddenly materialized in his path, and more than once he has to feint one way and turn around into another just to avoid running headfirst into a newly appeared Lemuris. Large, dark hands swipe from every angle, he can feel the cool brush of those just missed on his back. Once, he skids to a stop entirely, having just picked the partially bare ribcage of a dead orc amidst a pile of rocks, the only warning he had to an enormous Lemuris springing from nowhere, swinging ahead with its arms flung wide as if to embrace him. Only a quick missile saved him, a spell used reflexively, and which only succeeded because it blew the remains far enough eh Lemuris couldn’t reach him.

Breathing hard, knowing there were others about to descend on him, his fingers brush strangely-textured stone. Like chipped glass, or cooled molten material. He was at the line, and if that were so, Callan- There. He picks out Callan’s sword, and, a dozen yards away, the gleam of armor.

Scrambling to his feet, he dashes between two incoming Lemuris, and slides to a stop at the body, casting a shield around he and it. For one, glorious moment, he’s relieved, until he feels the familiar brush along his back. When he whips around, he almost loses the shield, but instead throws one up between him and Callan’s body.

Callan’s Lemuris, larger and the color of a stormcloud, looms over him. His predicament crashes over him. Here he was, trapped in the middle of the shades of the dead, attempting to save what’s beyond salvage. Already he’s been still for too long, the Lemuris gather around the perimeter of his shield. Callan’s beckons.

He had to finish the Book. His world has gone too long without someone to guide the unfortunate dead to rest, and if he was not to be Guardian, perhaps it was to fulfill a greater purpose…

His fingers find the strap that bound the book to his chest, and he undoes it, retrieving it from its pouch. He peels back the cover, and starts to read. The farther he gets along, the more his magic wanes. His shield dissipates as the changes within himself command his attention. He can feel the dead crowd around him, and starts to read aloud, like he would to small children, in order to keep them at bay.

He could give his life up for this, he thinks. A tear rolls down his nose and threatens to drip into the page. All he ever wanted was to help. This way was as good as any.

Medivh’s words swirl traitorously with those of the god who gave him this book’s.

_It’s the loneliness that makes us weak._

_If my world is to die, then I will wait until it is time for me to lead it, too, to rest._

He’s so close to the end of the Book.

A hand appears, and rests on the final paragraph. Khadgar nearly leaps back. But the shock is nothing compared to looking up into the face of Callan Lothar.

_Khadgar._ It’s definitely Callan’s voice in his head. _Let me._

Before he can form a protest, the gold and black of the page fall to the center, and form the snake that changes from black to gold in cycles. The snake winds its way up Callan’s wrist, disappearing under the plate armor of his chest. His eyes go black in their socket. Gold pinpricks appear at their iris, then spread until the black is gone. Then, he blinks, and he is still Callan, though very grim and with eyes that don’t belong to a young man any longer. He offers Khadgar his hand, which Khadgar takes, and finds himself pulled to his feet.

_Thank you._ Callan tips his head. _For coming back. For giving me another purpose, and a greater destiny than to simply die in front of my father._ Callan clasps Khadgar’s shoulder. _Look after the old man for me._

And with that, he begins to walk away. _Everyone follow me. I know the way._

~

Lothar tells Khadgar that Callan’s name meant “powerful in battle” in some forgotten lore or another. In a sense, he becomes true to his name. He ends all battles in a way. He leads all through the final battle. And when Azeroth dies, he will remain to lead her, too, to rest.


	2. In Which Lothar Greets Death, With Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompt: "Does Lothar ever find out what Callan became?"
> 
> Of course, we all die eventually.

He’s an old man, older than he had any right to be. Older than his friends had been, but death catches up with him eventually. Finally. On the battlefield, as was right, as was just. It’s not the worst pain of his life. He can still think around it as he gasps his last. The noise is the first to go, the chaos of it irrelevant to him now. Perhaps his last thought, laying in the burning field, was _at least I can see the sky_. Until the darkness eats his vision. Until thought, too, became irrelevant.

 _Dad._ Callan.

“Callan!” He shouts, but all he produces is silence. He looks wildly around, but all he sees is blindness.

And then.

Gold curls of light in the distance. A point on the horizon, an area of darkness encapsulated in an aura of light. Then, motion: a man walking toward him.

“Callan.” Lothar whispers, and this time he hears it as a faint echo.

 _Hi, Dad._ Callan hasn’t aged a day, though his eyes look like they’ve seen millenia. _I’ve been waiting for you._

Callan holds out his hand, and Lothar takes it. On contact, his body seems to fall back together into some semblance of its former self. Immediately, he turns his palm and pulls Callan to his chest, his free arm winding around his son’s shoulders.

 _Dad, come on._ His boy murmurs, but makes no move to break from him.

“I’m sorry.”

 _It wasn’t your fault._ Callan stirs, creates space until they can look at each other. Lothar’s hand cups Callan’s cheek. He kisses his son’s forehead. _Dad!_

Lothar laughs. “You can’t tell me I can’t kiss my son after this long.”

Callan burns pink, but allows it. _Come, walk with me._

“Where are we going?”

_To rest._

They walk together for a long time, much longer than perhaps they should, but Callan controlled the pace and said nothing of it being unusual. if they talk, it’s lost, for all they would have to talk about was life and both are beyond that now. But they do walk, close enough to brush every now and then, until the darkness transitions, and Lothar can make out a point of light in the distance.

Just as the light engulfs his peripherals, Lothar realizes he is alone. He stops walking. “Callan?”

_Don’t turn back._

Dread wells in the pit of his stomach. He’s filled with the certainty that if he looks away from the light, it’ll disappear. “Come with me.”

_I… can’t. I can only lead you here. I can go no farther.  
_

Lothar pauses. “You said this way is the way to rest.”

_Yes._

“You should rest.” A plea as much a statement.

 _I can’t, Dad._ Lothar recognizes that tone of voice. Remorseful, but resolute. He taught that voice to Callan from an early age. _This is my duty now._ A pause. _Just as it’s yours to rest._

If Lothar had shoulders, they’d be shaking. It’s not goodbye, but only because they missed the chance. “I love you, Callan.”

He almost looks back, the silence draws so long.

 _I love you, too._ Distant, or perhaps just quiet. There was nothing here to give him the perspective on either. _Follow the path. It’ll lead you where you need to go._

Silence, again. This time empty of all but Lothar. His head turns a fraction, but stops. With one, deep breath with lungs that no longer exist, tucking away a heavy heart that no longer beat, Anduin Lothar steps into the Light.


End file.
